


Emotional Support Snake

by sarahenany



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 02:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21190205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/pseuds/sarahenany
Summary: Aziraphale has a performance review coming up. He's not nervous, and he's certainly not having an anxiety attack. And he emphatically doesn't needhelp.One scene before the review, and one after.





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Thursday26 for beta, help with the title, and help with the anxiety attacks that inspired this. You rock.

When Crowley comes into the bookshop, Aziraphale is embarrassed that his friend finds him rocking back and forth in a silly self-soothing behavior.

It started this morning – knowing his performance review is coming soon – that he’s going to have to stand before the Archangels and be told all the ways he’s _wrong – _he recoils away from the idea, can’t think it, can’t think it, shelve books instead…

But the feeling pushing up through his corporation is impossible to ignore, and eventually he has to stop working and sink down on the couch, trying to get it under control. It manifests as a heavy tightness in his chest, a tingling in his upper arms and elbows, and a quickening in his breathing. He leans his head back against the couch, trying to will the slight trembling in his hands to go away. He knows better than to try and deal with it by leaving his corporation: one time, long ago, overwhelmed by the – the _symptoms, _he supposes he should call them, although he’s not sick so they technically aren’t symptoms – he tried leaving his corporation behind and resuming his true form. Now _that _was not the most auspicious of ideas. The spinning wheels of golden light that formed his essence were out of joint, whirling so wildly he felt he was shaking to pieces, the numerous eyes that formed him blinded, the multiple pairs of wings flailing wildly without purpose or direction. His corporation at least kept him relatively whole: without it, it felt as though he would vibrate apart, go flying in a collection of component parts across the cosmos where nobody would ever find him again. So back he dived into his body, thankful for the human-shaped vessel that contained him in a solid chest and arms and legs and torso and kept him from flying apart.

On days like this, he really feels he _is _flying apart. As if the arms and legs of his corporation will just shake off, drop to the floor of the bookshop and go rolling under the chairs.

_It’s just a performance review, _he tells himself, _not a disciplinary hearing. _He’s had his fair share of _those _over the years. Performance reviews are nothing. But the thought of leaving his friendly bookshop where it’s safe, where he’s cocooned and protected by the things he loves, and standing all alone, the centre of attention in the frightening, polished white space of Heaven—standing before a row of comfortably seated Archangels, all with their _eyes on him, _nothing to do but look up and down at how he chooses to present himself and judging him and finding him wanting – it makes his heart thunder in his chest again. Their piercing eyes will cut through him, not giving him a moment’s reprieve, and will issue judgment: too frumpy, too fat, too native, too soft, not a good angel, not worthy of admiration, worthy only of contempt…

He shudders, hard, and a soft whimper vibrates for a second in the back of his throat. He rocks back and forth harder, his hands rubbing back and forth on the knees of his trousers. There’s an odd grinding in his head, and he realizes it’s because he’s clenching his teeth together.

“This is r—ridiculous,” he says out loud. Gabriel is right: he’s a poor excuse for an angel. He should pull himself together and get back to shelving books, make himself useful instead of sitting here wittering on like some damsel in distress out of an 1800s bodice-ripper. But he can’t. Why can’t he? His limbs are filled with lead, his chest heavy, sending waves of cold out from the centre of his torso to the rest of his corporation, chilling him in time to his thudding heart. His breathing is fast and shallow. Consciously, remembering something a human told him once, he forces his respirations to be slower, deeper. It ought to help, but all it seems to do is push the cold deeper into his limbs, make his leaden heart heavier. His chest feels like it’s about to burst. He doesn’t seem to be inhaling, only exhaling, letting out puffs of air as his face tingles with unexplained numbness.

The shop-bell jingles and he almost jumps out of his corporation in panic. “Oh!” he squeaks, the chill that was in his chest blasting into his limbs and paralyzing him. It takes him a long moment to subdue the blind fear enough to blink, gasping, and see who it is.

When he focuses, there’s a long, lean silhouette of a very familiar demon standing before the square of light from the window, hip canted, a worried tilt to his head and probably, if Aziraphale could make out his features, a worried expression on his face beneath his sunglasses. “You all right, angel?” His voice is soft, tentative, as if he’ll break Aziraphale if he speaks too loud.

The question offends Aziraphale. He’s perfectly all right. He’s _fine. _He’s going to _Heaven, _place of redeeming love, to meet his _brethren. _He doesn’t need a demon asking him if he’s all right, and he certainly shouldn’t be wanting to hide behind that demon and never come out again. “I’m q-quite all right. Tick—ticket—t…” To his horror, he stumbles over the words, his gorge rising, what feels like his lungs surging up as if they’re going to burst out of the back of his throat. Another wave of cold fear sheets through him like ice. He stands, although he can’t really feel it when he does, a slight ache going through his jaw and making him consciously unclench his teeth. “P—people might… might… see…” Why can’t he gather his wits about him? In panic, he sees Crowley’s silhouette take a soft step toward him. “Crowley,” he hisses, “I have a _performance review! _I can’t be seen consorting with _demons!”_

Now that his eyes are adjusted to the light, Aziraphale can see Crowley’s face go soft, then carefully blank. “Oh. Performance review.” He stops moving forward, but his stance softens, his shoulders slipping lower. “I’m sorry, angel,” he then says inexplicably. “When?”

Aziraphale swallows. “In… in two days’ t—time.”

Crowley nods once, then claps his hands together. “Right, then.” He promptly disappears and there’s a coil of black snake where he used to be.

Aziraphale’s hammering heart slows down, but doesn’t relent completely. “Crowley,” he whispers. “They—they could find you…”

_“If _they came to the bookshop, and _if _they saw me, and _if _they assumed the snake was anything but a pet _if _any of the other _ifs _worked out,” Crowley says airily, slithering over to the sofa and twining himself around the leg to climb up to the cushions. “Sit down, there’s a good angel.”

“I d-don’t take orders from d-demons,” Aziraphale mutters, trying to get the chill in his chest under control. He plops down on the sofa, unable to do anything else. “I… I… What are—Crowley…!”

The snake has slithered into his lap and started twining itself about his body. Its coils are cool, but when it wraps itself firmly around his chest, it warms up with his body heat, and the tight, choking sensation eases a little bit. Aziraphale takes a relieved breath, then another. He slumps back against the cushions, panting shallowly with relief.

“That’s it, angel. Nice and easy now.” The voice is coming from his back, the serpentine body still settling and sliding around him. His panicked breathing starts to ease, the bands around his chest supporting him, anchoring him. Suddenly Aziraphale can’t keep himself upright and he all but collapses, lightning-bolts of fear still sparking in his chest and being soothed by the gentle, firm pressure wrapped around him.

Aziraphale’s head rests on the arm of the sofa, his body draped in a most undignified way across the seat. The muscles of Aziraphale’s corporation are lax, his breath – incomprehensible human corporation – fast and shallow as if he’s just been running. Firm and comforting, the bands around his chest expand and contract in time with his rapid, shallow breathing. They’re not constricting his airflow at all – if anything, they seem to be helping him breathe more deeply. A serpentine head pops up in the crook of his neck, resting softly on his shoulder. “Thatss it, angel. Just relax.” Crowley’s voice is soft and soothing, and Aziraphale slumps a bit more, suddenly drained. The little snake head on his shoulder is security, a talisman against harm. A coil of fear starts to wind through Aziraphale, but the tight hold gives him something to brace against. And then Crowley starts chattering in his ear, casual, comfortable, as if they’re sitting somewhere dining out. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. You have no idea the week I’ve had. Do you even know the trouble I’ve been to, all for the sake of those ungrateful plants? I wanted to get peat moss. Simple enough, you’ll say, go to the garden centre, miracle some up. What you don’t know is that I wanted to add some peat moss to get the pH of the soil down – the soil I have isn’t recommended for my plants.”

Aziraphale feels a smile playing over his features, chest held tight, Crowley’s head on his shoulder, a cheerful, warm voice in his ear. “You don’t say.”

“Oh, I do, angel, believe me. No good at all. Can’t expect to intimidate them if they don’t have what they need to _grow, _now can I? No, of course not. So I wanted to add peat moss, because that gets the pH of the soil down. Except every blessed garden centre this side of Camden sells peat moss that’s neutral. What I need is sphagnum peat moss.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are starting to drift shut, every muscle suddenly relaxing. It feels like he was on a rack and someone released the crank. It’s all he can do to say, “Really.”

“Yes. Really. Canadian sphagnum peat moss, to be exact. It’s the only peat moss whose pH is 3.0 to 4.5. Have you _tried _getting Canadian sphagnum peat moss in London? And I couldn’t look for it online because I was causing a little demonic trouble and made all the location searches relocate to London, Arkansas – one of my more brilliant little schemes. Did you know there are no fewer than _three _Londons in America?”

“Never…” Aziraphale yawns, “never would have guessed it. Thought there was just the one.”

“Nope. Three – one in Arkansas, one in Ohio and one in Kentucky. Thought it would be a grand joke to have online searches divert randomly. Only the bloody joke’s on me, isn’t it, I mean yeah there _is _someone selling Canadian sphagnum peat moss in Ohio, but the sheer amount of miracle power involved in Atlantic-hopping…”

Fully relaxed, Aziraphale lets out a little snore. Crowley settles himself a little more tightly around him, bussing his cheek with the top of his snake head. “Why not just miracle it up, you’ll say. Well, I’ve tried that, and the trace elements in the soil are never quite right, there’s something to be said for soil that’s been allowed to form the traditional way and not created out of whole cloth…”

The light in the bookshop fades. Safe in Crowley’s coils, Aziraphale dozes, a soft smile on his face. Undeterred, Crowley’s lecture continues, and Aziraphale dreams of plants and garden centres, performance reviews the furthest thing from his mind.


	2. After

Aziraphale lands in the summoning circle. His foot catches something and he stumbles, but flails out with a hand and catches himself before he hits the floor. _That’s all you’d need. Stumbling about like a human. Gone native. Poor excuse for an angel, can’t even stay upright. Shameful._

Everything is vague, a rushing in his ears. Out of sheer habit, he covers the circle with the Persian carpet, spending an inordinately long time straightening the fringes. When he’s been running his fingers over the same thread a dozen times, he stands upright and heads to his desk like an automaton. He needs to work. To keep busy. To be good.

“Hi, angel.”

Aziraphale startles, head jerking up. He didn’t even hear the shop-bell ring. Is he _that _out of it? _Poor excuse for an angel, weakest, most incompetent—_“Out!”

But the figure in the doorway doesn’t waver. “I brought wine,” he says, tentatively, brandishing the bottle like an offering. Or perhaps to ward off an attack.

“Crowley, you can’t…” The words stop in Aziraphale’s throat and he stands, turning fully to face the reckless demon. “Do you know what they’d do if they _found _you here? Do you know what they’d do to—” He chokes as he realizes he almost said _to me. _How selfish can he get? A few stern words or some severe disciplinary action are nothing, are better than he, Aziraphale, deserves, but Crowley… Crowley’s side is _Hell, _and just the _thought _of that lanky, vulnerable figure – or maybe Crowley’s true form? – strung up and—and—His mind shies away from the tortures of Hell, _fire and brimstone, _and he feels tears prick at his eyes. “Have you _no _sense of self-preservation, Crowley?”

“I have.” And blast it all if he doesn’t advance, loose-hipped, into the shop. “’S why I don’t go jumping at shadows. There’s no angelic or demonic activity around the shop, angel—nor in the British Isles for that matter. Only us.” He brandishes his bottle. “Thought you might fancy a jar, or are you still having…” Crowley’s eyes rake over the desk. “Where’s your tea, angel? Your cocoa? Chilly night like this, I’d’ve thought you’d—”

“I am not having _tea _or _cocoa, _Crowley,” Aziraphale says, perhaps more loudly than usual. “A good angel wouldn’t need—” He chokes on the words, horrified to feel the burn of tears in his eyes. “I don’t,” he mumbles, turning away and sitting back down.

“Good thing I’m a demon, then,” Crowley mutters, and Aziraphale hears the soft _pop_ of the cork. He lowers his head into his hands, swirling emptiness filling his chest, and isn’t surprised to find his hands are shaking. He _is _surprised when a sob breaks out of him, though, and oh, it wasn’t a good idea to choke it back, because it’s followed by another, and another…

And suddenly his face is pressed into Crowley’s middle, his wiry arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, squeezing him and stroking his hair. “Ah, angel. They’re dicks, they don’t appreciate you, they don’t understand you, they don’t know, they don’t know a fucking thing…”

“They’re—good angels,” Aziraphale gasps desperately into Crowley’s concave tummy. “They—they…” Crowley’s so warm. Aziraphale aches to wrap his arms around him and hide in him forever. He clenches his fists around the armrests of his chair to stop himself. Crowley pulls him in tighter, wrapping his arms around him. “Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale blurts, unable to control himself anymore, “I’m _soft _and I’m _weak _and I’m a _disgrace…”_

“Fucking twats, the lot of ‘em.” Crowley bends slightly so he’s half-crouched over Aziraphale, whispering into his hair. “You’re perfect, angel, you’re kind and compassionate and you’re full of love, nobody loves this Earth the way you do, they’re wankers, they don’t know a bloody thing, they have no fucking clue…”

Aziraphale manages to resist clinging to Crowley, but he shamelessly burrows into the cocoon of warmth the demon’s body offers. The ache in his chest is less painful when he’s being held like this, the empty feeling kept at bay. “I try,” he confesses into the warm, dark space between Crowley’s shirt and his jacket. “I try my best, I really do, but…”

Crowley starts rocking him. “Shh, shh, angel, Aziraphale, you’re perfect, none of that lot understands you, they don’t live here on Earth, they don’t get it, none of them gets it, you’ve more compassion in your little finger than they have in their whole sodding corporations, never you mind, angel, they don’t know you, I know you…”

And Aziraphale leans in and accepts the comfort, knowing it makes him weak but unable to bring himself to refuse.

Later, they will drink and talk of inanities, and Aziraphale will be very British and apologize stiffly for “my display earlier,” and Crowley will wave it away as if it was nothing. Later still, Crowley will persuade Aziraphale to lie down on the sofa, and drape the afghan over him, and Aziraphale will nurse the cold emptiness in his chest beneath the warmth of the covers, accompanied by Crowley’s idle chatter. And later still, when the moon has set, the angel will sleep, the ache in his chest soothed by the warm snake curled up on top of him, right over his heart. Crowley watches over him all night, listening to his fluttering heartbeat and wishing doom and destruction upon the Archangels who hurt his angel so. He stays, and rests his head against Aziraphale’s cheek, and gives him snake tongue-kisses, and fills him with all the love that should have been Heaven’s purview, but somehow has fallen to a demon instead.


End file.
